


In The Vesting Room.

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sentimental, Weddings, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:36:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is short, painfully sweet, and my response to simply needing a spot of emotional sugar in my day. I hope you like it too...but I really wrote it becuase I was starving for a spot of gooshy happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Vesting Room.

“What’s holding things up?” Sherlock asked, scowling at his older brother.

Mycroft, dressed in a perfect, flawless smoke-and-silver morning coat, sat on the bench in the vesting room, face white, hands clenched on his knees. He shook his head, but failed to say anything.

“Oh, good God,” Sherlock snarled. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally come to your senses and realized what a mistake this is?”

Mycroft shook his head again. He quavered out an inarticulate whine, gathered his nerve, and tried again. “No. Is he there?”

“Who? Oh—Gavin?”

“Greg.”

“How should I know?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m trapped back here with you.”

“Well, call someone,” Mycroft snapped, suddenly almost functional—if you ignored the shiver in his voice or the terror in his eyes. “It’s not like you’re ever without that damned phone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but slipped the thin smartphone from his pocket, pushing quick-dial.”

“John—oh, Mary. Why do you have John’s phone? Oh. Very well—I suppose I can concede the need to keep it away from little Em. Mycroft wants to know—is Greg there?” A second later he nodded to Mycroft. “She says of course he’s there—and do you need to talk to him?”

Mycroft shook his head frantically, snapping flat hands back and forth like a referee ruling a no-try over and over again.

“No—maybe you can snap a photo?” Sherlock smirked as Mycroft collapsed back onto the bench and leaned his high forehead against the top counter of the vesting dresser. “Yeah—got a good shot? Ok. No—see you out there soon, then.” He shoved the phone screen toward Mycroft, saying, “He looks steady enough, unlike his chosen mate.”

Mycroft was unable to resist peeking over. A small, indulgent smile crept onto his face. He reached out with one hand, with one finger, and tenderly traced the image of the “other groom.”

“He _is_ here.” He sounded drunk, and mawkish, and amazed.

“It’s his wedding, you clot.”

Mycroft nodded. “And he actually showed up.”

“Oh, brilliant deduction. You said it yourself, Mike: This is what people do. They get married. Greg is getting married, ergo and QED he is here at the church. With the specially imported American Episcopal priest while Canterbury closes his eyes and sings ‘la-la-la’ rather than rule against you. You’re not planning on buggering out now—or,” he said, brightening, “ Are you? I could smuggle you out. It’s just a short climb down the steeple tower and a jog across the church-yard and you’re gone, and I can spend the afternoon doing something pleasant, instead of this rubbish.”

“We made Donovan best man,” Mycroft pointed out, tartly. “It’s not like we didn’t lean over backward to spare you any ceremonial obligations. Besides standing up with me.”

“In case you faint.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft said. Then, “You have the ring?”

“Isn’t that Donovan’s job?”

Mycroft growled. “She has Greg’s, you prat. Please, tell me you didn’t lose the ring…”

Sherlock aped panicked searching, distraught realization the ring was missing, and wildly over-done remorse—then held up his middle finger with the ring resting lightly at the first joint, combining reassurance with insult in one economic move. “Satisfied?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed, and then turned his head. “They’re going in, now.”

“Yes. Bravo. You successfully noted a full pipe organ starting the occasional music. Of course they’re going in now.”

Mycroft nodded, but his eyes gazed into his own fantasy. “He looks splendid, I suspect.”

“You helped pick the morning coat, Mike…”

Mycroft nodded, silent, admiring his intended in fantasy, awaiting the moment he would admire him in reality.

“Mike—really. Are you all right?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Terrified, brother mine. What it goes badly? So many marriages do.”

“Then you’ll get a divorce and I’ll say ‘I told you it was madness.’”

Mycroft shook his head, then said, softly, “No. No—if it doesn’t work, it will break my heart.”

Sherlock studied him—his lean, angular face a portrait of wry frustration. But then, at last, his expression softened, and he grinned. “You silly clot. He adores you. Now get up and get ready. If I’m going to lead you in, I expect you to stand up straight and show some dignity.”

Mycroft laughed softly, and stood. “You forget, I’m leading you in. Just remember, you promised—no faces or obscene gestures behind my back.”

Sherlock sighed in anguished sacrifice, but grumbled his agreement. He stood aside as Mycroft passed him, and headed toward the door. They made their way down the tower, ending at last in the portico, ready to process. Mycroft shivered, and hesitated.

Sherlock put one hand on his shoulder, from behind. “Go forth in valor,” he said, very softly—lest anyone hear him. “You can do it, brother-mine.”

Mycroft nodded. He stepped into the doorway of the church, and paused, waiting for the organ to stop. A second later silence fell, the congregation rose, and far above in the choir loft the trumpet sounded forth the regal music of the prelude to Charpentier’s Te Deum. Mycroft stepped forward, tall and proud, head high, with eyes only for the man waiting for him at the head of the church.

Sherlock, trailing behind, smiled his fond amusement, and shared eye-rolls with half the people there—but no one was fooled. On that day even Sherlock was sentimental.


End file.
